


Looking

by mardia



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Drawing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 17:00:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1655834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mardia/pseuds/mardia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’re driving through North Dakota, chasing rumors of a HYDRA cell, when Steve asks from the passenger seat with his sketchbook turned to a blank page, “Hey, can I draw you?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Looking

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is so sappy. I blame Steve Rogers.

They’re driving through North Dakota, chasing rumors of a HYDRA cell, when Steve asks from the passenger seat with his sketchbook turned to a blank page, “Hey, can I draw you?”

Sam hardly has to take a second to think about it. North Dakota might be a nice state for the people that live there, but there’s precious little to look at right now in terms of scenery. Not much for Steve to draw right now, except for Sam. “Sure man, go right ahead. Should I strike a pose?” 

Steve smiles at him. “Nah, just stay natural.”

It’s pretty easy to do, turns out--Steve’s one of those artists who can carry on a conversation while he sketches, and it’s easy for him and Sam to keep up their usual banter, go over the latest intel Natasha and Maria Hill have sent their way, all while Sam ignores the faint scratching of Steve’s pencil on paper. 

At one point though, Steve makes a small irritated noise, and Sam glances away from the road to see Steve frowning down at his sketchbook. “Something wrong?”

“Just didn’t turn out the way I wanted, that’s all.”

“Yeah? Lemme see, maybe I can offer some input,” Sam offers, craning his head a little, but it’s no good, Steve shuts the sketchbook closed and says with a laugh, “Oh, not a chance.”

“Oh, come on,” Sam says, changing lanes to get out from behind an eighteen-wheeler. “It’s my face, I don’t even get a look?”

“Maybe later,” Steve says, closing the sketchbook and deftly changing the subject. 

The next night, Steve’s got three fingers splinted, so there’s no drawing, just the two of them nursing their injuries and going over the intel they’ve gathered. 

In the quiet moments, Sam almost thinks he can still hear the echo of gunshots. Maybe Steve notices, or maybe Steve’s just hearing them himself, because Steve says at last, “Hey, let’s turn the TV on. We can go over the rest of this in the morning.”

Sam nods, and only winces a little bit when he reaches for the TV, his aching ribs protesting any kind of unnecessary movement right now. They settle on some reruns of Modern Family, and laugh at the jokes and gags, Sam only needing to clutch at his ribs every once in a while. 

The next morning, they’re eating an early breakfast at the local Perkins when Steve pulls out his smartphone. “Do you mind?” he asks, gesturing at Sam. 

Sam, who’s been sitting sprawled out on his side of the booth, arm spread over the back of his seat, blinks but shrugs, and Steve snaps a picture, nodding in satisfaction when he sees how it’s turned out. He glances up and catches Sam’s raised eyebrow, and explains briefly, “Good lighting.”

Sam smiles. “Hey man, like I said, feel free.”

Steve smiles in return, and goes back to eating his eggs. The splints are off his fingers, and he looks as wholesome as ever. Sam, still nursing those aching ribs, feels the exact opposite, but if Steve thinks he’s good enough to photograph, then he can’t be looking as rough as he feels. 

*

It becomes a thing after that. In their spare time, during the quieter moments, Steve pulls out the sketchbook and draws. What exactly he’s drawing, Sam isn’t sure, but given the sidelong glances Steve’ll give him sometimes, Sam thinks he’s part of it. 

Other times, Steve doesn’t even bother with being subtle, he just settles himself opposite Sam, sketchbook open, and gets to drawing, looking up only to study Sam’s face and body, his gaze measured but never impersonal, and sometimes--sometimes so full of admiration that Sam’s face will get hot.

Sam rolls with it, every time, just keeps doing what he’s already doing, occasionally teases Steve by asking if he should start posing, if he needs to go into hair and makeup first. Steve always just smiles and says, “Don’t worry, you look fine.”

Sam doesn’t ask to look at the sketchbook. He figures Steve’ll show him when he’s ready, and Sam can wait until then. As for the way that Steve’ll watch him sometimes, even when his sketchbook is nowhere to be found, well. Sam can hold his tongue there, stay where he is until Steve’s ready to do more than just look.

Sam’s good at being patient. He can wait Steve out.

*

In their motel room right outside of Lincoln, Nebraska, Sam drops his duffel bag on the floor with a long sigh. “Man, I am wiped. Mind if I crash for a few hours?”

“Yeah, go on and get some rest,” Steve says, and Sam collapses on the bed, practically asleep before his head even hits the pillow.

He wakes up in what must be late afternoon, sunlight streaming through the window so that Sam wakes up in what feels like a pool of light. Sam just lies there for a moment, enjoying the feeling of waking up drowsily from a nap, no nightmares to escape from, no mission to rush off to, at least not right this second.

He turns his head to glance over at Steve, who’s perched on the other bed, watching the TV that’s on silent, captions on. “Hey,” Sam says after a moment, voice hoarse and thick from sleep still. “How long was I out?”

“Not too long, coupla hours,” Steve says. He glances over at Sam, and maybe it’s the lighting, but his cheeks seem pink. But then, Sam hasn’t met many people who flush as much as Steve Rogers does. “Hey,” Steve says, sounding a little rushed, “I know you said it was already okay, but--can I draw you? Like this, I mean.”

“Go ahead,” Sam says immediately. He watches through heavy-lidded eyes while Steve quickly sets up, a chair at the foot of Sam’s bed, sketchbook and pencil already out, only asking, “Need me to move any particular way?”

“Nope,” Steve says immediately. “Just--just stay like that. It’s, um, you’re fine as is.”

Sam cocks an eyebrow for a second, trying to fight off the smile, but follows instructions and stays as he is, sprawled out in his bed, arm thrown wide, his other hand resting low on his stomach. 

And maybe it’s that he’s still drowsy, but it’s easier than ever to let himself drift, just enjoy having Steve’s attention on him like this, Steve’s eyes lingering over his face and form. It’s easy to hold himself still, and to look back at Steve, to watch his hand move over the paper, watch how focused and still Steve is in his seat. 

At last, Steve seems to be finished, his hand going still--but he’s not looking away from Sam, and Sam just stays quiet and looks back, waiting for whatever Steve is going to do next. 

Steve gets up from the chair, carefully setting down his sketchbook and pencil, and heads over to sit on the edge of Sam’s bed, right by Sam’s side. Sam looks up at him and smiles, because he wants to and because it’s easy to do. It’s always easy to smile at Steve. “Hey.”

Steve smiles back, soft and fond. “I keep trying to get your face right,” he says with a little laugh. He hesitates for a moment, then lifts his hand up and starts to trace along Sam’s face, his finger running lightly along Sam’s cheek. “These cheekbones--gotta do them justice.”

Sam holds himself still, shivering a little at the feeling of Steve’s fingers touching his face. Steve keeps going on, his eyes so blue and focused on Sam, only on Sam, and when Steve’s finger dips down and just barely brushes against the corner of Sam’s mouth, Sam inhales sharply, his lips parting.

“Sam--” Steve starts, voice wavering.

“Goddammit, Rogers,” Sam says roughly, because he’s been waiting for this for what feels like a century. “Get over here and kiss me already.”

And thank God, it might have taken them a while to get here but Steve doesn’t need to be told twice, as he’s leaning right in and kissing Sam, soft and tender, and Sam just slides his hand into Steve’s soft hair and kisses him back for all he’s got, the two of them sliding right in like they’ve been doing this for forever, and right now, it almost feels like they have.

*

“Suppose I was a little obvious,” Steve murmurs much later, when they’re in bed together and Sam’s flipping through the sketchbook, looking at the sketches of his hands, his profile, his smiling face, caught mid-laugh. 

“I kind of like you that way,” Sam offers, which has Steve quietly chuckling. 

“You’re just nice to look at, that’s all,” Steve says next, and Sam grins as he looks down at Steve’s naked chest. But Steve’s continuing, adding more softly, “And once I started really looking--it got hard to stop.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, his fingertip resting on the last sketch of him in bed, and thinks about meeting a guy on a morning run in DC and never looking back. “I hear that.”

When he looks back up, Steve’s smiling at him as if he can hear everything Sam isn’t saying. And when he goes back in to kiss Sam again, sweetly, Sam’s sure of it.


End file.
